


We should travel more

by TeddyTR



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Baskerville AU, Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:01:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeddyTR/pseuds/TeddyTR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baskerville AU, things get a bit more aggressive after John storms out on a terrified Sherlock. <br/>Spoilers! Warning: Badass!John is on the board!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John was not happy. Or, to capture it better, he was not amused. Not this time. Yes, the military base w _as_ a thrill, pulling soldier again. Sherlock’s proud amusement was almost palpable which, too, was quite a satisfaction. But what came after, that was not for John’s satisfaction at all. Because running around in some creepy woods with a totally terrified victim used as bait and an entirely ignorant sociopath was not what John Watson considered as a satisfactory situation. One sole thing felt good and that was the gun, a reassuring weight in his trousers.

 

As they walked, John examined their surroundings with care. Gigantic hound or not, his gut told him he needed to look out anyway. To be able to shoot first. Because that’s how you survive. You shoot first, before they shoot you – a lesson John had learned in the hard way. But this time he wasn’t afraid of getting attacked. Instead he was anxious about a certain detective getting himself into trouble. John snorted. Like that would be something avoidable. They were in trouble already, weren’t they?

 

The moment he thought that, a flicker of a movement caught his eyes. John froze concentrating every muscle and nervous path to identify to source of the stirring. He slowly let go of his gun as the dim light revealed itself. _Only flashlights. Easy, soldier,_ he told himself. He realized he was reading the flashing light. _What?_ He pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. _This is Morse!_ _UMQRA_ It was making no sense. Maybe he didn’t catch it all. Or he just couldn’t put it together correctly. Sherlock would know how…

 

John’s eyes widened. _Sherlock._ Where was he? He turned around and felt the icy shower over his shoulders as he realized he was alone. He was about to call out when he heard something. A movement, very fast and rather far, but it was no human being and not just the trees. John couldn’t tell when he started to run or when the gun appeared in his hand. All he knew that he needed to find Sherlock, find him fast and with a loaded gun at his command.

 

***

 

The events became confusing quite quickly. As John escorted a freaked out Henry towards his home, he decided he disliked this case very much. He let comforting words flow from him mindlessly. Until Henry mentioned Sherlock.

 

“He saw it too, John, he must have.”

 

And it hit John hard. _Yes, he must have._ Suddenly, he felt an overwhelming urge to get back to Sherlock. He said a quick goodbye and rushed out.

 

***

 

John Watson never thought he might see a day when the great Sherlock Holmes actually trembles with fear. It was… alarming. John decided that this needed a doctor’s eyes, so he examined the situation. Sherlock was in shock, if that was a possible state for him. Real shock. Petrified and terrified of a thing he most certainly didn’t see. He even showed every single physical symptom, which made John’s frown grow deeper. He needed to snap the detective out of it.

 

He concentrated on his tone rather than what he was actually saying. He tried to sound reassuring. It had no effect. Sherlock was getting irritated.

 

“Me? There’s nothing wrong with me!” He hissed.

 

What followed made John’s nerves stir too. Sherlock showed off, trying to intimidate him, the whole world, like that would help. Not facing the problem as it was. Most of the time John was a person who could be described as passive aggressive.  But being with Sherlock had spoilt that almost entirely. Now, John had emotions he couldn’t control properly. He felt excitement, thrill and joy at a dangerous level. And he lost the meaning of angry. What he had nowadays was _rage_. Very, very dangerous. He felt his heart start racing with it. And Sherlock just went on and on.

 

“… So why don’t you just leave. Me. _Alone_.” was the punch line of the small speech. John clenched his fists.

 

“Yeah. Okay.” He pressed through his lips. He was fidgeting. “Why would you listen to me?” Sarcasm. Another thing from 221B life. “I’m just your friend.”

 

Oh, John knew they were not like that. They both knew and they both kept clear from voicing. It was not friendship. Not companionship. They were no comrades or roommates. It was a little bit of each, but somehow it was even more than that. There were too much caring, too much reading each others’ thoughts, too much understanding. And John knew Sherlock knew too. Of course he did. He was way too clever to be deluded, not even by his own feelings. Not to mention that things went two-ways.

 

So, from that perspective, it wasn’t that surprising to hear Sherlock snap back: “I don’t have _friends_.”

 

And yet, it _hurt._ John flinched. He didn’t expect it to hurt this much. But it did. Sherlock overstepped something he shouldn’t have. He could call John an idiot, he could talk with him like an irate prick, but not this. Never this. And John decided Sherlock should be aware of the boundary he just trampled on.

 

“Yeah, _wonder why._ ” He said quietly, gathered his coat and stormed out, leaving the still terrified detective to his fears.

 

***

 

For some time, John expected Sherlock to call or go after him. Well, he didn’t. _He needs some more agony to realize it,_ he thought and went for a walk as couldn’t bear going back to his room and just sit for the rest of the night.

 

If not in a particularly bad mood, John would have laughed at the ‘Morse code’ he managed to found out about on his lonely, furious trip. Couples secretly banging each other in the middle of nowhere. The cars’ lights flickering with the movements. Hilarious. He didn’t felt like laughing though.

 

He was about to head back, maybe for a drink, when his phone rang. For a second, he thought it would be Sherlock. His heart skipped a beat, God knows why. But it wasn’t the angst-stricken detective.

 

“I-it’s here,”hiccupped Henry in the phone.

 

“What?”

 

“J-john, it’s, ah, it’s here. The hound. I’m going to die.”

 

“No, no wait, Henry-“ There was a loud shout. “Henry?”

 

“I… I don’t know what to do…” The other man was sobbing.

 

“Don’t do anything, I’ll be there in a minute. You hear me?”

 

“Y-yeah.”

 

“Just a minute.”

 

John tapped his gun and turned to strode towards Henry’s house. For a minute he considered calling Sherlock, but he dismissed the idea, assuming that the detective wouldn’t be much help right now and anyway, and he didn’t want to risk getting Sherlock punched in the face, which had a high possibility in the state John was in. So he doubled his steps instead. He would take his anger out on that dog or whatever. God have mercy for every creature crossing John Watson’s path when he’s in a bad mood.

 

***

 

When John arrived to Henry’s house, he found the man trembling in the living room, pointing shaky fingers to the backyard.

 

“Okay, you stay here, I’ll go, take a look.”

 

“N-no!”

 

“Don’t worry, I have this, remember?” John showed the gun. Henry just sobbed and shook his head.

 

John stepped out, pointing his gun at the darkness. He slowly went through the trees and bushes. Suddenly, there was a movement, not too far. John turned quickly and saw a shade. It was way too big for any kind of dog. _A person_.

 

“Freeze!” John bellowed, but the figure rushed into the woods. Without a thought he sprinted after it.

 

This hunting instinct, it was something John enjoyed pulling out. He always had it and he might be a short man, harmless-looking in his knitted sweaters, but this instinct, this was his hidden gift. Hidden, but not invisible. Sherlock saw it. He was the only one.

 

Every sense kept track on his prey. A man, tall, probably taller than Sherlock, athletic, but not trained. He must know the woods, because he kept turning and twisting, clearly not afraid of getting lost. His height was an advantage; John was falling back. _Hate long legs,_ he thought angrily. He pushed forward harder. The man took a quick turn and disappeared behind a bunch of tall bushes. John literally jumped after him. And suddenly, there was no ground under his toes. He fell with a small shout of surprise.


	2. Chapter 2

John lay on his back. He still held his gun, which was good for self-defending, but bad as it left no opportunity for his hand to dampen the fall in any way. So he hit the ground hard. No, not the ground. He hissed. There was a big branch under him.

 

He didn’t fall from a very dangerous height, but with the branches and the lack of any attempt on his behalf to avoid the accident made things a bit more alarming.

 

From the headache he assumed at least a slight concussion. For further examination, he needed to move. He was a bit afraid to do so and he still listened hard for any sounds around him. The man must have escaped, but one can never know.

 

Finally, he decided to do it slowly. His legs were fine. _Good,_ he thought, _legs are important._ His arms seemed alright too. Maybe several bruises, nothing serious. _Okay then, let’s sit up. Maybe I was lucky and I didn’t-_ Even his thoughts came to a halt when he moved. The pain was so intense and striking that he had to lie back and concentrate on breathing for long moments. _Shit._ Ribs. The bloody tree had to break his ribs. Not his arm so he could walk, no. It had to be the bloody ribs.

 

“You stupid piece of junk,” he hissed at the branch.

 

He needed to call help. As gently as he could, he searched for his phone. It was in his trousers’ back pocket. _Back_ pocket… John cursed. He pulled it out. _Of course_ it was broken. Now he really wanted to shoot that branch. It was already dead, but never mind.

 

What to do now?

 

 _Define the extent of the injury, shut out the pain, get to the closest inhabited area._ John blessed his military training. So, the ribs. With gentle fingers, he pressed his chest, going through the bones systematically. _One, two… three. Not that bad._

 

The next task was more difficult. He shut his eyes, took a big breath and sit. He almost fainted. _No,_ he told himself firmly, _I will not faint, I will stand now and go._ Well, standing or going would be a strong word, but he somehow dragged himself, with help of tree branches. Maybe they wanted to make up for their kin’s crime.

 

 _This will be a long walk,_ John mused darkly as he took the path that hopefully led to the town.

 

***

 

John didn’t know how much time had passed. Hours, maybe. He used the last of his power. Not to mention that the pain started to crawl back and it was worse than ever. He needed to stop and catch his breath.

 

In the dark, his hands found a considerably flat stone. He slumped down. The stone had a headrest. _How strange._ He wondered if Sherlock was looking for him or not. If he knew, he certainly would, but John couldn’t call him and maybe he thinks his phone is turned off because he’s angry. Yeah, that… John huffed. It would be hilarious. Him dying alone in a bloody forest because Sherlock chose this very evening to pout. _Dying..._ No, he didn’t have a mortal injury. _Only if they don’t find me…_

 

John looked up at the sky and saw dim, grey light breaking the darkness. _Huh, it’s dawning._ He finally had a chance to take in his surroundings properly. He spotted other stones around him. They had headrests too. Except the fact that they weren’t headrests…

 

Despite the pain it caused, John let out a choked laughter. He was in a cemetery. A freaking cemetery. _This is bloody hilarious,_ he mused as his eyes slowly slid shut.

 

***

 

“JOHN!!!”

 

John startled awake. _What? Who?_ He turned his head and saw a very messed up Sherlock stumbling through gravestones.

 

_Am I dreaming?_

 

He tried to move. Intense pain shot across his body.

 

_Oh, apparently not._

 

Sherlock finally reached him and grabbed his wrist, checking his pulse first. John could tell it must be weak. He was tired and very very cold.

 

“John, my God, please, talk to me!”

 

“Good morning.” His voice was hoarse. He didn’t like the sound of it. Neither did Sherlock. He frowned at him.

 

“How many?”

 

Sometimes, it was incredibly comfortable that Sherlock didn’t need explanations.

 

“Three ribs.”

 

Sherlock growled. “Ankle?” He asked as he put his coat around John’s shoulders carefully. It was wonderfully warm.

 

“No.”

 

“Good.”

 

A thought stuck in him. Some explanations w _ould_ be needed. He grabbed Sherlock’s hand.

 

“There was a man.” The detective’s expression broke into something too intense for John’s fuzzy mind to identify. “Tall, good runner, I think no weapon, his-“

 

“John, please.” Sherlock interrupted. “This is unimportant now.”

 

John frowned. How could this be unimportant? It’s a high possibility he saw the culprit of the whole case! Sherlock must be interested.

 

He opened his mouth to say so, but the detective shook his head. “No, I really don’t care. Now, tell me, are sure it’s only those three ribs?”

 

John nodded. His head hurt, but he decided it wasn’t worth mentioning. He felt miserable enough already.

 

“Okay. I’m calling Lestrade and then we have to move you to the nearest-“

 

“Lestrade?”

 

“Yes, he came this morning.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Don’t know, didn’t care. Came handy though, he got the whole local police looking for you.”

 

Some quick movements, rush words and Sherlock shoved his phone back to his pocket.

 

“I’m sorry John, but we have to move out from here for the car to pick us up.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Easier said than done. The pain was on full-potential now and the fatigue didn’t help. Even with Sherlock carrying almost his whole weight, it was a cruel journey.

 

Lestrade was already waiting with a car. They somehow maneuvered John to the backseat and Sherlock sat beside him. He leaned in gratefully. It was warm and unbelievably comfortable.

 

“How far is the nearest hospital Lestrade?”

 

“It’s almost-“

 

“Hospital?” John stirred.

 

“Obviously, John.”

 

“No, no, that’s not necessary.” Sherlock glared at him, but he went on. “The local office is more than enough. Really, there’s not much to do with broken ribs.”

 

There was a long silence.

 

“John, I don’t like this.”

 

“That’s unfortunate, because I’m not going to a hospital.” John Watson never lacked determination. Not even with three broken ribs.

 

Sherlock sighed. “Fine. All of them are idiots anyway.”


	3. Chapter 3

John was right. His chest got a bandage, he was told to rest and that’s all. The slight concussion and the bruises were, too, things that needed a comfortable bed and nothing else. He got some painkillers and they were free to go back to the inn.

 

Sherlock stayed mere inches away from him the whole time. He didn’t say a word though. It was a bit awkward.

 

When they got back, John settled into his bed painfully, determined to stay in a sitting position. He would certainly not lie back and sleep. They still had the case and three broken ribs were not enough reasons for John to get distracted.

 

The only problem was Sherlock. He sat on a chair beside him and just stared. _Still scared?_

 

“Sherlock?” He tried. A pair of glistering eyes snapped at him. “About the man in the forest, I think he might be the one who-“

 

“John, I’m so sorry.” The detective whispered into the middle of his sentence. He stilled.

 

 “I hope you’re not talking about my ribs, Sherlock.” That comment got him an anxious look and a gulp which clearly said ‘busted’. The memory of yesterday evening’s rage crept back to him.

 

“This” He pointed at his chest. “Is not your fault. I was careless. And the guiltiest one is definitely the man who started the whole thing in the first place.”

 

“Yes.” Sherlock said quietly. “It’s about what I said last night.”

 

“See, _that’s_ your fault.”

 

“John, look, I meant it.” John’s face darkened so Sherlock rushed to continue. “I don’t have friends. We both know you’re not my friend. That category is way too shallow for you. But I understand how it sounded and I admit I was… disorientated. I spoke without thinking. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

 

John sat in awe, watching the detective getting more nervous with every second passing with silence. He decided to put him out of his misery after a minute.

 

“I need that on a CD.”

 

“What?”

 

“What you just said. I need that recorded and stored.”

 

The other man looked so baffled that he couldn’t hold his laugh any longer. Sherlock joined in with a weak smile which broke the moment John’s ribs made him flinch. Laughing was still a bit too painful.

 

“Anyway, apology accepted,” he huffed. “And thank you.”

 

“For what?”

 

“For finding me. Truth to be told I was a bit… nervous. How did you know I was missing?”

 

“Henry called.”

 

“Oh, of course.”

 

“John, I… please don’t do something like this again.” Sherlock’s tone was so unnatural it made John look at him, _really_ look at him for the first time since their reunion in the cemetery. His hair was a mess, dark bruises lay under his eyes and he had a constant frown sitting on his forehead. _Worry_ , John realized. Guilt rose up in him.

 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’ll call you next time, okay?”

 

“You promise?”

 

“Yeah, I promise.”

 

He seemed to relax a bit, so John assumed it was time to continue with the case. “The man I saw, do you have any idea who could he be?”

 

“Several ideas, yes. But we don’t have enough information to identify him.”

 

“At least it’s sure that we are not dealing with a demonic dog from hell.”

 

“Yes, about that… I really saw the hound, John. Glowing red eyes and all.”

 

“But that’s impossible!”

 

“Not in the slightest.”Sherlock smirked. “Think. My eyes saw something that couldn’t have been there. So?”

 

“Hallucination!” If his head didn’t hurt, John would have slapped himself. “Of course! But, wait, that means you and Henry were under the effect of some kind of drug?”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“How come I wasn’t affected? We ate and drank exactly the same things.”

 

“No, not exactly.” Sherlock pulled out a small nylon bag from his pocket and showed it to him. “We had coffee, but you don’t take sugar, do you, John.”

 

John let out an amused huff and examined the little bag in his hand.

 

“It’s from Henry’s house. Someone must have put the drug in it, so every time Henry had tea or coffee…“

 

“…He was drugging himself!”

 

“Precisely, but…”

 

“Proof. We’ll have to prove it somehow.”

 

“Yes. I need a laboratory. I guess we have to get back to the base somehow.”

 

“That will take ages.”

 

“And favors.”

 

John glanced back at the bag. There was a quicker way to prove the theory. A drug causing fear and panic attack? _Can’t be worse than the nightmares,_ he thought and he ripped open the nylon bag. He heard Sherlock gasp and move, but he was faster. Before the sugar was snatched out of his hand, he had already had a considerable pile on his tongue.

 

“John, NO! Don’t you dare-“ He shut his mouth. Sherlock continued in a growl. “-to swallow.”

 

“Too late.”

 

“And w _hat the hell_ do you think you’re doing?!” He grabbed his shoulders.

 

“Proving our suspicion.”

 

“WHY?”

 

“It’s faster and you know it. If I didn’t have broken ribs, you would have made me eat it yourself.”

 

“What?! No! God, John, you… you’ve just _drugged_ yourself with a _deliriant!”_

“No, I’ve drugged myself with something you _assume_ is a deliriant.”

 

“It must be the sugar!”

 

“We will see soon.”

 

“You… I can’t believe this.” Sherlock paced fuming in the small room. “Sometimes I wonder if I have a dangerously bad influence on you.”

 

“Oh, please, I am vicious without you too.”

 

“Yeah, ‘bad days’, was it?”

 

John smiled widely. “Come, stop pacing already, you’re making my head hurt.”

 

Sherlock sat on the bed with a huff and grabbed his hand. “Oh, John. Why did you have to do this? I’ve had enough heart attacks last night.”

 

“I’ll be fine. What could happen? You’ll be here the whole time, won’t you?”

 

“Don’t ask stupid things.”

 

“Then it’s all fine.” As reassurance, John squeezed the long fingers in his hand. Sherlock looked pissed, but he smiled. A little.

 

And they waited.


	4. Chapter 4

Hours passed and nothing happened. Slowly, John let his steeled nerves relax. Sherlock, on the other hand, was still on the edge, pacing, fidgeting, checking his pulse in every ten minutes.

 

“It’s not in the sugar,” John stated when the long fingers grabbed his wrist for about twentieth time in that afternoon.

 

“Of course it’s in the sugar, it must be in the sugar, it can’t be anything else.” Jabbering. That meant Sherlock’s brain was roaring up again.

 

“But I’m fine. No panic attack and no fear.” It was unnecessary to voice that. The detective was already halfway through disconnecting the real world. John knew what it meant and knew he should leave alone his friend to it.

 

“You should go. I would, but you see…”

 

“No, no John!” Sherlock snapped back to reality. “I’m _definitely_ not leaving.”

 

“But you always say you have to be alone in your ‘mind palace’ for it to work properly.”

 

“Silence will be enough now.”

 

“But-“

 

“I’m not leaving and neither do you John. Now lie back and have a nap if you like.”

 

John wanted to argue and didn’t want to disturb more. He did lie back, but couldn’t stop a frown breaking through his features. The life with Sherlock Holmes was not easy one.

 

His fuming thoughts were quickly distracted by the sight he haven’t really seen before. Sherlock stared, eyes focusing on nothing. Then, he started to move his hands, as if a board was in front of him. That kind of super modern touch screen board the CIA had nowadays (or secret agents in movies). And John was one hundred percent sure Sherlock actually saw the information flow in front of his eyes, he could move the bits, delete them at his will. It was the most fascinating thing he had ever seen.

 

And what’s more, just ten minutes later it was over. Sherlock’s eyes widened, a small smile played around his mouth as he whispered.

 

“Hound.” And he was back. John fidgeted to sit up again.

 

“Sherlock that was… oh God, it’s…”

 

“I know.” The detective’s face darkened. “I have been told already how I look like a lunatic while I’m in my mind palace. Don’t worry, it’s nothing clinical. I have been checked.”

 

“You what? No, no, shit, who the hell said that junk?” Anger rose up in John. How can anyone say that kind of stuff to the most amazing mind of the century?

 

“My father…”

 

He stared silently for a second. Suddenly, he hated that man. He had never seen him, but now he knew just enough to _hate_ him. So intensely it surprised even himself.

 

“No, look.” John started, trying to steady his voice. “This was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.”

 

“Oh, John, you just-“

 

“Don’t interrupt me! I’m bloody serious here, Sherlock. Say then, have I ever lied to you?”

 

“No.”

 

“Do I say so, when you act like a lunatic or a prat?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then do you have any rational reason not to believe me when I say this was bloody genius?”

 

“…No.”

 

“Right.” John huffed. “You actually _see_ that um, palace, don’t you?”

 

“I do.”

 

“Fantastic.”

 

Sherlock looked away embarrassed. John couldn’t believe his eyes. Of course he knew how the detective felt about his comments, but he’d never seen them show so blatantly. This trip was full of surprises. _We should travel more,_ he thought amused.

 

“So, what was that ‘hound’?”

 

“Oh yes, that.” Sherlock finally looked like himself again. “Don’t think it’s a strange use of words?”

 

“Why?”

 

“It’s quite archaic. Why would Henry say ‘a gigantic hound’? Why not say ‘dog’? He got this word from somewhere, but where? Hound. If it’s not referring to a big animal then what? What if you put it like this: H.O.U.N.D.?”

 

“H.O.U.N.D.” John tasted the word. “It sounds like a code name.” His eyes widened. “And _by coincidence_ we have a military base nearby. Oh, this is too good! An acronym. Where did you get the idea?”

 

Sherlock smiled. “From you.”

 

“What?”

 

“U.M.Q.R.A. The ‘Morse code’.”

 

It was John’s turn to blush in embarrassment. “At least, I’m inspiration,” he mumbled sarcastically.

 

“Yes you are.” No sarcasm in that.

 

John coughed, feeling his face burn up even more. “So what now? Seems like we must go back to the base after all.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And don’t bother arguing with me. I’m going too.”

 

“But-“

 

“I’ve just said, don’t bother. I have a feeling that my gun will be needed.”

 

“Lestarde can come to reassure that.”

 

John just frowned at that. Sherlock let out a sigh. “You and you’re stubbornness… Fine, but promise me you will be careful.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“And don’t overdo it.”

 

“I won’t.”

 

“And the moment you’re in pain you-“

 

“Yes, yes, I’ll tell you. Let’s get going already, Sherlock!”

 

The detective helped him to stand. “I don’t like this,” he huffed as he offered his arm to John.

 

***

 

“My God…” John whispered as he scanned through the monitor. Project H.O.U.N.D. was quite a tragic disaster. It fit into their theory perfectly. Only one question remained. If not with the sugar, than how did the drug entered Sherlock’s and Henry’s system?

 

He was deep in his thoughts when Sherlock’s phone rang.

 

“Ah, Doctor Mortimer.” John watched the detective’s face darken. Something was wrong.

 

“Okay, stay there, don’t go out. We’ll send someone.” He put down the mobile. “Henry attacked her.” He explained. “After that, he ran off.”

 

“He’s going to the moor.”

 

“I think so, yes.” Sherlock dialed quickly. “Lestrade? Come to the moor. Now.” He shoved the phone back to his pocket. “Let’s go.”

 

John nodded and followed.

 

***

 

John had to admit he was in pain. Sherlock supported his body and they were not actually running, but kind of striding fast through the forest (amongst those _bloody_ branches). Even like this, he started to feel weary and he assumed he would have needed stronger medication for fighting crime in state like this.

 

He didn’t say a word, of course. Yes, he promised, but it wasn’t that bad yet. And Henry was in trouble, not to mention Sherlock. May the culprit be anything or anyone, it might want to harm him and John was not going to let that. He pulled out his gun and steeled himself.

 

They did find Henry in the moor. He was losing it. He pointed a gun at them the moment Sherlock called out for him.

 

“Hey, hey, easy Henry!” John tried to sound calm which he wasn’t.

 

“Get away from me! I know what I am! I know what I tried to do!!!”

 

“Just put the gun down. It’s okay.” _Put the gun down, Henry, because if you try to shoot…_

 

“No, it’s not, I know what I am!”

 

“Yes, sure you do, Henry.” Sherlock started. “It was explained to you carefully, right?”

 

“What?”

 

“Someone needed to keep you quiet, as a child. Needed you to reassert the dream you both clung on to because you started to remember.” John glanced at Sherlock anxiously as he continued. “Remember now, Henry. You’ve got to remember. What happened here, when you were just a little boy?”

 

“I… I thought it had got my dad. The hound… Jesus... Jesus I don’t know!” Henry started yelling again. “I don’t even know anymore!” He put his gun to his mouth.

 

“No, Henry!” John shouted. He wasn’t ready to watch a man’s mind blown out in front of him. “For God’s sake!”

 

“Remember!” Sherlock jabbered. “The two words you told us. Liberty in. You saw those two words as a frightened little child twenty years ago! You’d started to put the pieces together yourself. Remember what really happened here that night.”

 

All of them stood frozen.

 

“It wasn’t an animal, was it Henry,” Sherlock said slowly. “Not a monster.” Henry looked up, blinking. “A man.”

 

John saw the realization in his eyes. Both of their fingers eased on the guns.

 

“The man John saw at your house. He was the real thing. The hound, you made it up because you couldn’t cope.” Sherlock went on. “You were just a child. So you rationalized it into something very different. Then you started to remember, so you needed to be stopped. Driven out of your mind, so no one would believe you.”

 

Fascinated as he was, John was too aware of his pain and the gun still resting in Henry’s hand to enjoy the conclusion like he usually do. As Sherlock spoke, he slowly went to the trembling man and took the gun from him. He let out a relieved sigh as he gave it to him willingly.

 

“Sherlock!” Lestrade finally made it there.

 

“But…” Henry’s voice shook. “But we saw it. T-the hound… we saw it…”

 

“There was a dog, not a hound. Just an ordinary dog to scare people, Henry.” Sherlock explained. “We saw it as a hound with glowing red eyes because we were drugged. Fear and stimulus. There was no monster.” As punch line to that, they heard a loud howl from above.

 

John looked up, not believing in his own senses. _This can’t be._

“Sherlock?” He called out to the other man, asking ‘what the hell’ with one word.

 

Henry went wild again. “No, nononono!!!”

 

“Henry, Henry, look…” Sherlock was going to start explaining again.

 

 _Not good,_ John thought. “Sherlock!” He needed the other man to focus on the danger they were in, not Henry’s emotional breakdown. He pointed his gun at the… well, it _was_ a bloody hound with glowing red eyes. Beside him, Lestrade mirrored him. _Hellish creature or not,_ John thought desperately, _I will let it taste some bullets, if it moves._

Henry went on shouting. Something stuck in John’s mind. He turned to the petrified DI next to him.

 

“Are you seeing this?” He got a nod. “Sherlock, we three might be drugged, but he’s not, so what _is_ that?” He got no answer. _No time for that damnit._ He raised his voice. “What is that?!”

 

“All right, it’s still here.” Sherlock hissed. John wanted to laugh out loud. _Bloody_ hilarious. “But it’s just an ordinary dog!” The detective went on. “Nothing more!”

 

“My God!” Lestrade finally found his voice.

 

As the… something moved closer pain, fear and disbelief was behind John in a second. The gun in his hand was all that left. _Shoot it,_ his senses said, _take. It. Out._

It was as if he heard Sherlock shouting with someone in the background, but it didn’t reach him accurately. Then suddenly, he saw in his peripheral vision that the detective was beside him, holding onto a man. “The fog!” He shouted into his ears.

 

“What?”

 

“The drug is in the fog! Aerosol dispersant, it was in the files.”

 

For a fleeting second, John was distracted. _Obviously,_ the creature chose that moment to attack. He was brought back by the sound of Lestrade’s gun. He missed it. Oh, but John wouldn’t. He didn’t have time to shut out everything again, so he just ignored the growing pain clouding his vision and shot.

 

Being a soldier came with not just nightmares and scars, but with some advantages too. For example, his shot was deadly precise despite any amount of injuries or distractions. Two bullets, one for the head, one for the heart. The creature fell immediately.

 

Sherlock dragged Henry closer willing him to look at it. Lestrade moved too. John couldn’t care less. He was starting to see stars dancing around him. His breathing was ragged and his chest felt like it was on fire. “Sherlock.” He whispered as he fell to his knees.

 

The detective spun around at his name. His expression went back to horror.

 

“John!”

 

Before he could move to his side, John caught his eyes darting behind him. It dawned on him. Of course. What about the culprit? He heard the crack of branches and bushes behind him. _He’s getting away!_ Once again, rage bubbled up in John. Last time, the man led him into a nasty trap and fled. And he was about to do that again. _Oh, no he’s not._

Too aware of the fire burning in his chest, John tossed himself around and shot in the direction from which he heard the cracking. There was a loud cry and the sound of a body falling down.

 

“There you go.” John spat. His vision was almost full of dancing lights now. He could barely see Lestrade running past him. There was an arm around his shoulders.

 

“John! John, look at me!”

 

  _I would, but I can’t,_ he thought, trying desperately to find Sherlock’s eyes. He heard his name being called from afar as he drifted into darkness.

 

***

 

“So let’s summarize it. You were the first one to see the culprit. You were the one who shot a savage dog _precisely_ in the head and the heart, _plus_ a running man in the leg without seeing him, all while _three_ of your ribs were broken. And you still think I am the amazing one.”

 

John fidgeted in the bed, avoiding looking Sherlock in the eye. The other man lay next to him - another bed was put in as the detective refused to leave the room. It was even pushed right next to his, so they had a double bed in the end.

 

“I… but I didn’t do anything. You figured it all out.”

 

“God!” Sherlock huffed and sat up. “John, your ignorance towards yourself is driving me up the wall!”

 

“Oh, well, _thank you._ ” John pouted. “I would fire back all things about you that drive _me_ up the wall, but we don’t quite have the time.”

 

Sherlock chuckled. “Okay, okay, enough about the case. Hungry?”

 

“Famished.”

 

“I’ll bring some breakfast then.”

 

“Thanks. Could you get some coffee?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“But no sugar.” John added playfully.

 

Sherlock turned back from the door to stare at him. “You really think I could drug you?”

 

“Absolutely positive.” He grinned and continued on a soft voice. “But I don’t mind, you know. I don’t mind any of it.”

 

A smile spread on Sherlock’s face. “You’re amazing.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, just go already.” John said blushing yet again.

 

With a chuckle, the detective was out of the door. John leaned back smiling to himself. _We really should travel more,_ he thought.


End file.
